This Tuesday started out like any other. Early morning PE, we lost the handball game as usual, had fun with fellow Green Team members. Since it was our last game day, we took lots of pictures with Babes’ camera.
With our handball instructor,
who specifically requested to take a picture with all the teams.
I then spent the rest of the morning with my friends, studying for the Math finals later that afternoon. We expressed a common desire to cut English class to study, but decided against it.
Fast-forward to Math class: Final examinations. Last chance to redeem ourselves and our grades. It could have gone better—in fact, I think I only just passed the exam by a fraction.
An hour and a half later, Rational Psychology came ’round. We had a quiz I didn’t study for, mostly because I was so focused on the Math finals, but also partly because I was reading my new copy of Kikomachine Komix Blg. 3
Anyhoodle, during RatPsych, as our professor was giving out our papers, he took me aside for a moment to show me my grade, and told me to compute for my preliminary grade. I already knew then that it wasn’t gonna be good.
After a minute’s computing by Denyang, I got my grade. 75. Seventy-fucking-five. It was all I could do not to howl. My pride was crushed. After all, I survived Dr. Co, the Venerable Master
, and I couldn’t get past this
class? Seriously, Ela? Seriously?
I was feeling so crummy that I almost—almost—cried. (Emphasis on almost because I do not like to cry, especially in front of people.) Thank god I have amazing friends who tried to cheer me up. We had dinner at Lover’s Lane, had a long talk about life, love, and school.
And when it was only Gab, Bru, and I, they picked apart my psyche until they concluded this:
“Malungkot ka kasi may gusto kang di mo makuha, at di mo maamin ‘to sa sarili mo kasi ma-pride ka.”
That’s some big talk for eighteen-year-olds, but they hit the nail right on the goddamn rusty head.
Posting this for posterity. Abbey and Kat are the most incredible friends a person could possibly have, and to think that they have the patience to put up with a crazy bitch like myself—they are possibly martyrs.